


Nursing

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Illnesses, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Nurses, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3695198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This seemed like a much better idea in Abe’s head." Abe tries something he hasn't fully planned out and it goes over better than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nursing

This seemed like a much better idea in Abe’s head.

Abe rarely suffers from this kind of mental disconnect. By the time he’s made a decision, it’s a straightforward process to follow through on it and bring it to its fruition. As a rule he’s sorted through the ramifications and pros and cons so thoroughly that the result is one of the many he’s considered, and he’s wholly satisfied it is the best option even before it’s played out. But there is something about Mihashi that unsettles him, ruffles his usual calm calculation until he finds himself thinking things, saying things,  _doing_  things when they’re half-formed, or unweighed entirely, just for the way Mihashi will stare at him like there’s nothing else in the whole world but Abe. Abe would do anything for that,  _has_  been working for that well before he realized what his motivations were; it’s just a continuation, now, to deliberately throw himself into ideas on Mihashi’s behalf.

The problem is that he’s not even sure Mihashi is going to  _like_  this, stated (or stuttered) interest notwithstanding. He can’t imagine the other boy laughing, or offering any kind of ridicule -- that’s so entirely against Mihashi’s nature that Abe’s brain won’t even parse the idea -- but Abe is ridiculing himself, even though he’s doing his best to avoid looking in the mirror as he struggles to pull the zipper up against his back. It catches oddly, the angle to reach the tiny metal tab is poor, and his hands are shaking, he’s sure they’d be icy with panic if Mihashi were to touch him now. He turns his back on the mirror, glares at the corner of the room instead, and when he yanks on the zipper it slides up his back, far enough that he can reach up over his shoulder to catch and tug it up the rest of the way.

It takes a moment before he can steady himself enough to glance in the mirror. It’s only a moment; then he’s spinning back, turning away from his reflection as his blush deepens and starts to bleed down over his collarbones. The skirt is bad enough, it’s baring the his legs all the way up to mid-thigh so he can see the lingering bruises and half-faded scars clear against his skin. The white of the fabric just makes the markings on his legs more obvious, and the skirt’s not even the worst of it. The whole uniform doesn’t fit quite right; even with the tightest fit across the chest Abe could find it’s too loose, the waist is straining against a sturdier build than the outfit was expecting. It doesn’t look exciting, it doesn’t look titillating; it looks like exactly what it is, a nurse costume barely covering a high school boy, and Abe’s uncontrollable blush is doing absolutely nothing to help sell it.

He would take it off if he could do so without explaining anything. But he left Mihashi in the other room with the promise of a surprise, he can’t go back out empty-handed, and trying to explain what he was planning after backing out of it seems far worse than just  _going_. His hand is still shaking when he reaches for the door handle, his grip unsteady enough that he pushes too hard and comes forward faster than he expected.

Mihashi’s not looking up when the door opens. He’s hunched forward over his legs, his spine curved in so he’s occupying less space than a normal person. With his chin tipped down Abe can just see the unthinking worry in his eyes, the soft concern that settles into Mihashi’s face when Abe’s not there to startle it away. Abe’s frown creases into his mouth, draws a growl of protest out of his throat, and Mihashi’s head is coming up, his eyes widening into startled surprise before Abe remembers to blush at what he’s wearing.

“Sit up straight,” Abe snaps, criticism rising more easily with the burn of embarrassment under his skin. Mihashi is  _staring_ , his eyes are wide and golden with shock, his lips parted around an unvoiced exclamation. Abe can’t  _stand_  it, he’s waiting for the comment to fall like a blow and he can’t hold himself still and calm.

“I’m supposed to take care of you,” he says. He can’t get the words to be gentle, affectionate or teasing like they should be, but he’s closing in and Mihashi’s eyes are going wider like he can’t remember how to blink. Abe comes all the way up to the edge of the futon, close enough to come in and straddle Mihashi’s knees, or to reach out and touch his forehead.

He does neither. Instead he stops just at the edge, where his toes are brushing the edge of the mattress. Mihashi is still gazing up at him with his mouth open on silent surprise, his precise fingers loose and relaxed on the covers under him. But the self-effacing curve of his spine is gone, vanished in shock, his spine is straight but for the sharp upward cant of his head, and Abe’s panic coalesces into a bubble, catches in his throat into a wild giggle that he barely chokes back into a cough.

They’re both silent for a moment. Mihashi’s mouth is working but there’s no sound, and for once it is Abe who is flushed red with embarrassment. The only color in Mihashi’s cheeks is the faint feverish pink high on his cheekbones, and after a day of recovery even that is almost gone. Someone else, _anyone_  else, would have left Mihashi to sleep his way back to health alone, but Abe doesn’t know how to not fret, and if he’s going to be panicking he’d rather be doing it here, where he can reassure himself Mihashi’s fine without relying on the other boy’s infrequent updates.

“How are you feeling?” Abe asks, finally, even though the words are still too-sharp in his throat. Mihashi doesn’t flinch, either from familiarity or just because he’s still too shocked to react as he usually does. He just blinks, finally, starts to color more actively as he pieces his mouth together around “A-abe-kun, I-I--”

“How’s your fever?” This is comfortable, this is easy. Abe can drop to his knees in front of Mihashi this way, he almost doesn’t feel self-conscious about the way he has to keep his legs together in the short skirt. Mihashi goes redder, glances away and hunches his shoulders in again; when Abe touches the back of his hand to the other boy’s forehead, he can’t tell how much of the heat is illness and how much is reaction.

“I’m f-fine,” Mihashi protests, or says in what would be protest coming from anyone else. He’s ducking his head, like he’s trying to hide his face in that way that always makes Abe want to touch him, want to lift his chin up into the light and lean in to kiss him.

“Stop hiding,” Abe demands, pushing at Mihashi’s forehead to turn his features up. “I can’t hear you when you look down like that--”

His words die off in his throat when he sees the expression on Mihashi’s face. The other boy isn’t looking at him; he’s keeping his eyes down with all the determination in his frail shoulders, his mouth trembling with the effort, but he’s completely crimson, such a violent red suffusing his skin that even Abe can’t imagine for a moment that it’s anything but embarrassment.

“Mihashi?” he asks, feeling his own skin flash hot all over again, like he’s suddenly remembered what he’s wearing. “Look at me.”

Mihashi makes a weird, breathless noise, a protest cut off sharply in his throat like he’s swallowing the sound back. Neither of them move for a moment; Abe can feel himself staring, can’t remember how to look away. Then Mihashi’s eyelashes flutter, his gaze eases up over Abe’s shoulders with painful slowness, and Abe can see his eyes, and he can’t breathe anymore.

Mihashi’s eyes are usually lovely, on those rare occasions Abe can get the other boy to look directly at him. During a game they catch the light and sparkle like jewels, when he smiles they go soft and warm as summertime heat. But Abe’s only seen the other boy look like this a handful of times before, and never when he was in any position to pay it the attention it deserved. Mihashi’s eyes are huge with heat, wide and dilated out to almost black, only a sliver of color around the perimeter still visible. The part of his lips doesn’t look like panic anymore, with the tell of his eyes; it looks breathless, like Mihashi’s been shocked out of himself, and in the first stunned realization Abe doesn’t think to edit his words before he blurts them.

“Oh my  _god_ ,” he gasps. “You really  _are_  into this.”

Mihashi stutters a breath, choking on his inhale in a way that would make Abe panic if he weren’t thrumming through and through with heat. But he keeps his head up, keeps his eyes locked on Abe’s as if he can’t look away, and Abe’s skin is prickling with warmth, his awkward self-consciousness forgotten in the burn.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, sharp and loud as a shout, and he’s leaning in while Mihashi is still flinching from the word like it was a blow. His mouth crushes against the other boy’s, his lips falling into alignment without effort from either of them, and Mihashi’s shoulders might have moved back from the curse but he recovers nearly instantly, tips his whole weight forward with the desperate want that so often characterizes Mihashi’s desire. Abe’s impulse is to push back, to shove the other boy back to the bed and pin the tremble in the other’s body into steadiness with his own weight. But protectiveness wins out over reflex, holds him upright when he wants to falls forward, keeps his hands gentle at Mihashi’s shoulders when he reaches out to steady them both.

He’s not thinking about anything. Abe is too occupied with the various conflicting urges under his skin, the conscious effort it takes to hold himself back from the desire to shove Mihashi bodily to the ground running up against the embarrassment still hot and aching under his skin and the distant discomfort of the floor against his bare knees. Between worrying about his own reactions he’s not thinking about Mihashi’s, is far too caught against the friction of the other boy’s lips to think about his hands, which all means that when there’s the drag of fingertips against the bare outside edge of his knee, Abe jumps, half-shouts some unformed sound of surprise -- and the touch is gone, Mihashi snatching his hand back and jerking away like Abe’s skin burned him.

“ _Ah_ ,” Abe gasps, takes a breath loaded with guilt and irritation in equal parts from the wide-eyed panic in Mihashi’s eyes. “Ah, sorry,” and he’s ducking his head, holding onto Mihashi’s shoulders to keep him in place while he tries to control the sweep of crimson self-consciousness all across his cheeks. “You startled me.”

“Sorry!” Mihashi blurts, the word so familiar it comes without the stutter of uncertainty that usually characterizes his responses. “I wanted--”

His words die into silence, and Abe flinches, doesn’t have to look up to know what face Mihashi is making. He knows it already, the cringing apology written clear into the duck of the other boy’s head and curl of his shoulders, the reaction so excessive it always makes Abe tense and anxious with the need to make things better, to fix whatever it is that is bearing down so heavily of Mihashi’s thin shoulders.

So he moves. His cheeks are burning and his hands are shaking, but it’s still easier to lean in than to get Mihashi to listen to him. Abe can’t quite do what he half-wants to -- just reach out and  _touch_  the other boy, press his fingers in against the front of Mihashi’s jeans to chase away the panic with friction -- but he does manage to drop his hand to Mihashi’s hip, low enough and firm enough that it conveys his point well enough.

“It’s okay,” he says, as calmly as he can manage even as his voice catches and drops unexpectedly low in his throat, the feel of Mihashi’s hip under his palm enough to send his tone skidding down an octave. “You want…?”

Mihashi whines rather than speaking, reaches out to close his fingers bruisingly tight at Abe’s shoulder. Abe would wince -- the pressure is enough to hurt, honestly -- but it’s a welcome distraction for the self-consciousness under his skin, the dig of Mihashi’s fingers a point of reference as he slides his hand sideways by an inch.

“This?” he asks, leading Mihashi right up to the edge of permission, and Mihashi ducks his head in what could charitably be called a nod. Abe can hear the stutter in the other boy’s breathing, can see the implicit agreement in the slack angle of Mihashi’s free hand, but he stops still, his face burning hot with embarrassment and his body locked in place just shy of contact. He wants to, he  _wants_  to, it’s no distance at all but--

“You have to  _tell_  me,” he says, his voice breaking open along the cracks of embarrassment burning under his skin. “Mihashi, I can’t be sure if you don’t--”

Mihashi whimpers, a breathless noise of pure strain, and Abe can hear the incoherency on the sound, the impossibility of the other boy managing words. But then there’s a hand at his wrist, trembling fingers closing against his hand, and when Mihashi drags Abe’s hand in sideways to press against the heat at the front of his jeans, it’s enough certainty even for Abe.

“ _Christ_ ,” he blurts, grinds his hand in reflexively  against the resistance. Mihashi jolts at the contact, his hips coming up to meet Abe’s touch as if on instinct, and he’s flushing all over his face but Abe’s too far gone to worry about the other boy overheating. He’s ducking his head, pressing his forehead to Mihashi’s as if the other boy has any stability to spare while he drags his hand up so he can push desperately against the button of the other’s jeans. Mihashi is of no help at all; he’s clinging to Abe’s shoulders, breathing so hard he sounds a little like he’s crying, until as Abe gets his pants open he shuts his eyes and just gives himself over to gasping and trembling in equal amounts. In the middle of a game this sort of shutdown is infuriating; right now it’s arousing, burns all through Abe until he’s shaking too, until his pull at Mihashi’s clothes is far less gentle than it is desperate. But Mihashi is rocking back, capitulating entirely to the other’s motion with no attempt to curl in and hide himself, and in the first evidence of how interested Mihashi is Abe forgets about any lingering regret about this particular idea. He’s even grateful, if only because the skirt is easy to push up one-handed, doesn’t require any maneuvering except pushing his underwear aside and sliding in as close to Mihashi as he can get; then they’re both right there, flushed into heat against each other, and all Abe has to do is fit his hand between them to pull them in together.

Mihashi folds in at the contact, goes as pliant as if his spine has turned to liquid, his fingers curling in at the back of Abe’s neck as his head dips in to bump at the other boy’s collarbone. The sound he makes sounds like a sob, sounds like an inhale and a wail at the same time, like he’s trying to choke back a moan, and it goes through Abe like sunlight radiating through the back of his baseball uniform. He’s moving without thinking, dragging his fingers up and turning his head in, and if he’s gasping Mihashi’s name against soft hair it’s unintentional, a fallback to a reflex he didn’t know he had. He’s forgotten about what he’s wearing, the awkward stretch of the dress against his waist and the loose fabric around his chest pushed aside in favor of focusing on the burn of friction in his blood and the sound of Mihashi panting against his shoulder. Mihashi never lasts very long once they get to this point, has to be tremblingly desperate before he can push himself to give coherent permission, but even so this is as bad as Abe has ever had him this quickly; he’s rocking up on his knees, actually shifting to thrust up against Abe’s hold stroking over both of them, and it’s partially the motion and mostly the enthusiasm that is making Abe gasp for air, that is turning Abe’s attention into steam in his veins.

“Abe-kun,” Mihashi whimpers, his fingers tightening against the collar of Abe’s dress. “ _Abe-kun_ ,” and he’s starting to hyperventilate, Abe can hear the catch of his breathing going too-fast against the other’s shoulder.

“Mihashi,  _breathe_ ,” he demands, command falling easy on his tongue, and Mihashi chokes and gulps air, breathes in so deep Abe can feel it trembling through the taut hold at his collar. Then Abe slides his hand down, unthinking motion to sustain the set rhythm, and Mihashi jerks and spills hot against Abe’s fingers, all that breath rushing past his lips in one drawn-out whine. Abe chokes surprise, barely keeps his hand moving through the aftershock shudders, and Mihashi is falling in against him like he can’t manage to hold himself upright anymore. Abe shifts his hold, lets the other boy go in favor of chasing down the heat rising slow in his blood, and Mihashi’s curling in against him with the unselfconscious affection he so rarely shows, his knee sliding at Abe’s hip and his head fitting in against Abe’s shoulder until his mouth catches at the very edge of the other’s throat. It’s distracting, the friction of his lips somehow adding to the friction of Abe’s hand sliding up over himself, and then Mihashi breathes a tiny sigh of satisfaction and everything in Abe’s head turns warm and white. His back arches, his hand grabs at Mihashi’s hip as if to steady himself, and when he comes it splashes all over his sticky fingers and against the edge of the dress pushed up around his hips.

It’s a moment before he can come back into himself enough to take stock of their position, enough to worry about the exhausted slump of Mihashi’s shoulders. He eases the other boy away with his clean hand, ducking in to take stock of his expression, but Mihashi is smiling, the soft unthinking smile of pleasure that always looks like the sun breaking out from behind a cloud.

“Mihashi,” Abe growls, and even that isn’t enough to take the soft off Mihashi’s smile, only to get him blinking himself into the shape of focus on Abe’s face. “How are you feeling?”

“B-better,” Mihashi manages, shutting his eyes obediently to the press of Abe’s hand to his forehead. He  _does_  feel cooler, the burn of fever and arousal alike gone, replaced with just normal warmth under Abe’s fingers, and the perpetual knot of worry in Abe’s chest loosens into ordinary levels of concern.

He doesn’t put voice to his thought, and with Mihashi’s eyes shut there’s no one to see the quirk of a laugh that tugs at the corner of his mouth before he can control it. But it  _is_  funny, that after all he should turn out to be a better nurse than he expected or even intended to be.


End file.
